


Trial by Fire

by Anonymous



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Accidental Bonding, Alternate Universe - Soulbond, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Worldbuilding, completely set-up to write ridiculous odd couple fic in the future, relatively little plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 15:23:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,115
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3330755
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a universe where everyone is empathic and connected through mental linkages, Mycroft and Greg spontaneously bond without knowing. It all comes to head when they meet three years later.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trial by Fire

**Author's Note:**

> I blame my id for this. Apologizing beforehand for abuse of em dashes and italics.

The first time they meet, they don’t talk.

Mycroft hardly spares the Detective Sergeant a glance, mind already moving onto more important things; the rising violence in the Middle East, a secret conference in Geneva. He can read the man like a book anyway—already sees the work-laden nights in the bags under his eyes and the coffee stains on his sleeve, the failed marriage in the wrinkles of his clothes and the tan line of his missing wedding ring. His personality shines from his eyes, his posture, his tone of voice, spelling out his deeply held morals, his rigid sense of honor, his confidence in his leadership and his team—it’s all open to Mycroft.

And he doesn’t find any of it interesting. Lestrade’s normal; a competent officer with a slightly higher-than-average solve rate compared to his peers.

 

Greg, head aching and eyes bleary, barely notices the man sweeping past him in the hallway. He’s ready to pass out and rather preoccupied with thinking about how much he’d enjoy laying out on a soft surface. He still takes in a few details—well dressed, dark ginger hair, slightly taller than himself—but he’s off-duty and not in the mood to practice any real detective work.

He ignores the slight curl of fear in his gut, dismissing it as another side-effect of the paranoia the strange man who had burst into their crime scene—Sherlock, he said his name was—had inflicted after revealing his life story in a blur of smug arrogance.

The man looks like a politician, and though he’s surrounded by an irregular, palpable feeling of power and control, that isn’t anything Greg hasn’t seen from other high-ranking officials.

They walk past each other at the Yard, their eyes meeting for half a second—barely the most cursory of glances. Mycroft’s on his way to the superintendent’s office to erase Sherlock’s record, Greg on the way out in a hurry to go home and sleep.

Their hands brush.

\--

Mycroft feels a slight ache in his arm. (Greg’s bruised his wrist against his desk.)

Greg starts getting cravings for sweets in the afternoon. (Mycroft’s in a tense conference in Japan.)

Mycroft gets utterly pissed one Friday night, feeling melancholy and lonely, hating his job without really knowing why. (Greg can’t find the killer. He knows who it is, he just can’t _find_ him, and it’s exasperating and shitty, always relying on Sherlock to do his job.)

Greg gets shitfaced-drunk Saturday afternoon, cleaning out a bottle of wine before he even realises it’s all gone. (Mycroft’s stuck in a deadlock trying to sort things out between China and, well, _everyone_ , and he really has no options or choices at his disposal.)

Mycroft knees someone in the groin the next time he’s caught in a scuffle, disposing him with a clean cut to the back of the neck when the man curls inward. Anthea blinks in confusion, not used to his change in fighting style. (Greg fights dirty because fair fights don’t exist on the streets.)

Greg notices the odd cufflinks, shaped like oblong triangles, points deadly sharp, on the victim’s shirt. Sherlock looks surprised, having almost missed the clue himself. (Mycroft has keener senses than Sherlock—he’s the one who taught him the basics of observation and deduction, after all.)

Mycroft develops a taste for coffee and, to Anthea’s extreme shock, exercise. His first run is on a beautiful afternoon in Paris, during a break in a flurry of tedious meetings. (Greg, stress amped to twelve by a serial murder case, can feel his shoulders relax as a surge of endorphins rushes through his body. He doesn’t question where it’s come from, simply allowing himself to relax and bask in the feeling.)

Greg’s French, learned in childhood from his father, improves. He discovers a previously nonexistent ability to understand Spanish, and even grasps the basics of speaking. (Mycroft’s fluent in over twenty languages, which includes four different dialects of Spanish and two of French.)

Mycroft feels random pangs of jealousy during a meeting with a high-ranking German official, confusing himself for all of five seconds—he doesn’t find the man attractive in the slightest—before he wrings his concentration back into control. (Greg’s at a pub, casually flirting with a tall ginger he eventually goes home with. He can’t ignore a weird niggling that something’s _wrong_ , though.)

Mycroft’s irritable for days after. Even Anthea treads cautiously around him.

Greg’s in the middle of a fistfight to restrain a suspect, heart beating too fast and anger building from a low simmer to a heady boil. He spares no tricks in dropping the man, cuffing him a little more roughly than he usually would. (Mycroft’s in the middle of seducing an asset. Greg’s final hit, a brutal punch to the gut that knocks the suspect unconscious, coincides with Mycroft’s climax.)

Greg’s team doesn’t comment on his unusual ferocity, assuming he’s just had a terrible day.

It gets worse.

 

The bond lies dormant for three long years, able to grow without restriction in their ignorance. (They never meet in person, partly because Greg doesn’t know who Mycroft is as anything more than a vague inkling, and Mycroft’s already mostly forgotten the Detective Sergeant he passed that one day.)

By the time they really notice anything _wrong_ , (Greg’s looking through his shopping when he notices he’s bought a navy tie that looks terrible on him and is twice as expensive as his shirts; Mycroft’s near dozing on his sofa, a tumbler of brandy in his hand, when he realises he’s dressed in a t-shirt and jeans), not even a mental hacksaw can touch their bond.

\--

Their second meeting occurs at 221b. (Mycroft on a usual check-up on his brother after a long trip abroad; Greg with an interesting case he needs help on.)

Mycroft’s reclining in John’s chair, partaking in his usual staring contest with Sherlock. Communication is always easier with his brother, who only requires the slightest twitches and shrugs to understand his messages, even without their sibling bond. John’s making tea in the kitchen in an effort to ignore them.

He hears the steps on the stairs easily, can tell from the light in Sherlock’s eyes who it is. He still turns to look, to politely greet the Detective Inspector, but his mind stalls as soon as he sees him.

The moment their eyes lock, they’re stuck, unable to break away.

 

Greg makes an aborted step forward, barely restraining himself from throwing himself at the chair Mycroft’s sitting in. Mycroft’s knuckles are white from where he’s gripping the armrests, a poor attempt at keeping himself at bay.

 

“Both of you at once, really _?_ ” Sherlock’s eyes flick between the two, his face flipping to disgust. “I can feel the stupidity rising already.”

“Shut up, Sherlock,” snaps Greg, feeling the tension building in his spine and the inevitable pull—

“This is _my_ flat, Lestrade, and if you think I’ll just let you—”

The stranger cuts in, growling low in this throat, “Shut _up_ , Sherlock.” Greg can hear a hint of jealousy (that should _not_ be sending a pleasant tingling up his spine, especially from a stranger) and knows that Sherlock must’ve heard it, too, which can only lead to terrible things.

“Tha—“ He watches Sherlock, eyes wide and mouth open, turn to the stranger and then back to him, and finds a sort of vicious pleasure in seeing Sherlock speechless. It does help distract him from the fact that his own brain’s trying to pound its way out of his head to latch onto the stranger’s. “What have you done to my _brother_?”

Oh, God, _brother_. Of course he’s bonded to him—someone he doesn’t know and never met, because his life is insane and hates him.

“Sherlock,” warns _Sherlock’s brother_ (bloody what the fuck), but Greg knows that it’s futile to try and stop Sherlock when he’s in his nosy and intrusive moods. He just sighs and redirects his concentration to continuing to resist the urge to jump the stranger (a bit easier, now that he’s gotten used to the cloying tension, and Sherlock’s helped divert his attention by being utterly unbearable; also, his bondmate’s turned out to be Sherlock’s _brother._ )

It’s barely been five seconds before Sherlock bursts out, “I can’t—a _bond_ , Mycroft? Have you even met Lestrade before?”

“Once,” retorts Mycroft—Greg knows the stranger's name now and it only feels right to use it. “At the Yard. We passed each other in the hallway.”

“Well that obviously makes it all better,” says Sherlock scornfully. “I’m sure you stalked him on your CCTV cameras after?”

“Sherlock.” This time the warning comes from John, walking back to the sitting room with tea in hand. He takes one glance at Greg and Mycroft, and quickly grabs Sherlock’s arm, dragging him out of the room, yelling, “You can’t just interrupt a bonding like that!"

“It’s Mycroft, my brother,” says Sherlock, loudly. “And Lestrade, my Detective Inspector. _In my flat._ ”

“ _Our_ flat,” corrects John, barely audible now.

\--

He’s burning.

Mycroft _needs_ in a way he’s not used to, wants nothing more than to envelop Greg, delve into his mind and—he grits his teeth, brings himself back to the present. He won’t let himself just _take_ , “This is—abrupt. However, would you,” he pauses to take a breath, a futile attempt at grounding himself. “Accept my offer of bonding?”

Greg looks dazed, pupils dilated, incomprehension written all over his features. “Time,” he finally gasps, wincing as if saying the word actually pain him. “We need time to think.”

“We don’t _have_ time,” Mycroft knows he sounds desperate, knows he should be the rational one in this exchange, but his brain’s on overdrive and his already sharp senses are driving him insane. He can barely keep himself from snarling or doing anything vaguely predatory (how he wants to mark Greg, to dig his teeth in and just _bite_.) He doesn’t— _can’t_ —scare Greg away, needs to keep him forever and always. His blood calls for it, and he knows that Greg’s blood demands that same satisfaction.

“I—” He can feel Greg’s will waver, and the dark, primal part in Mycroft cheers, urging him to move closer, to take what is his. “This—”

Mycroft rises slowly; each step toward Greg eases the fire, bit by bit, and he purrs, “Yes?”

Greg’s stock still, back ramrod-straight, eyes fixated on him, twitching as if ready to run at each step closer. He doesn’t run, though, (not that it matters much, Mycroft would give chase and catch him, _claim him_.) Mycroft takes advantage, slinking around to block off the door and backing Greg up against a wall. “Parted from me and never parted,” he breathes. “Never and always touching and touched.”

Greg closes his eyes. “We meet at the appointed place.” And oh, does surrender taste so _sweet_.

It’s a brief kiss, just a light touch. Mycroft inches away, mumbles against his lips, “I await you.” He brings up a hand to brush against Greg’s cheek, fingers tracing down his face before they lock onto his psi points. “My mind to your mind,” he says, the age-old words calm him slightly, a balm for the burning inside.

Greg brings up his own hand to Mycroft’s face, whispering, “My thoughts to your thoughts.”

\--

 _Colour_ , thinks Mycroft, dazzled by the cascades of lights surrounding him, _so much colour._ He can feel his connection to Greg forming; lines crossing the borders of their minds and linking them together, trails of icy silver blue reaching out to crimson red—

—and then he crashes.

The bond stutters for a second, drops him into his own mind to give him a final chance to back out. It’s their choice to open themselves to each other (though the pleasure feedback loop the bond has running pretty much makes that “choice” a simple formality), letting them rest for a second before the bond exposes them in full.

His own mind is organised as a library; shelves and shelves of memories, stored safely in books, all catalogued and hidden in his own, altered, Dewey Decimal system. It’s his way to make sure everything’s in place; to conceal his secrets so that no one else can see them without having to delete and forget these vulnerable parts of himself.

The entrance is a simple-looking office; dark blue walls, mahogany desk and chair in the center of the room, nicely furnished without being overly flashy (unlike Sherlock’s, whose mind fortress is currently a palace.) Doors line the walls, covering every inch of free space, but only two currently hold any of his interest: one leads inside, to his own mind, silvery-blue glowing around the edges, and the other to the entrance of Greg’s, crimson red shining from the gaps.

It’s not a hard choice.

He reaches for the knob and watches the door disintegrate.

Greg stands in front of him, his own hand hovering in the air.

The bond explodes.

\--

Everything’s dark, like the sun’s exploded and left the world empty.

It’s almost peaceful—kind of pleasant to let his senses drift and rest in this place of nothingness.

There’s a flicker of light to his left, and he can see the edges of a room being built around him, oak floors and white-washed walls, beautiful in a utilitarian and minimalistic way. Greg decides to help, because he’s a nice and cooperative person, and adds lights to the ceiling.

“I did want to have it finished before you saw it,” says a voice. The tone is mild, though Greg can hear the layers behind each word, can actually _see_ the hidden emotions running along the walls in spurts of color.

“I’m sorry, I’m just a tad impatient.” He turns to see the stranger—Sherlock’s brother, _Mycroft_ —dressed in a charcoal three-piece suit; white pinstripes along his black waistcoat and pants, solid navy tie, black leather dress shoes, the chain of his pocket-watch leading from button to pocket, standing with a matching black umbrella off his arm. Greg feels slightly underdressed in comparison, with his ratty t-shirt and ripped jeans, no socks or shoes in sight. “Hello.”

Mycroft watches a light green line, _curiosity_ , tinted in Greg’s red, weave its way across the walls, blooming into a small firework before disappearing with a pop. “Fascinating.”

Greg shrugs, turning his own head to watch Mycroft’s own emotions, the light purple and green of interest and curiosity, shaded in Mycroft’s silver-blue, crashing together likes waves at shore, “It helps keep things open.”

Mycroft takes a step toward the wall, running his hands along it until he touches one of the sparks of color. It wraps around his fingers, twirling into spirals before fading away. “I confess, I didn’t expect such inspiration from you.”

“With the job forcing me to have an emotion display and all.” Greg shrugs. “I though thought I’d make it pretty at least.” He makes himself an armchair, worn just enough to be soft, and settles himself comfortably. It always took people a while to get used to seeing their emotions projected so clearly.

“Certainly.” The chair suddenly lengthens to where Mycroft stands, waiting for him to sit before it narrows, sliding them together; enough so they’re close, but not enough that they’re touching.

Greg pushes his feet nearer so that they’re touching Mycroft’s, sighing into the comfort that he feels as he does, “It’s not polite to play with other people’s constructions, you know.”

Mycroft shifts slightly, toes off his shoes while his socks disappear, and runs his foot along Greg’s ankle, “Of course, it’s only proper courtesy.”

The first touch of skin sets the embers of lust burning again, blowing it up to a full-on fire along his nerves. The sofa contracts again, and this time Greg’s not sure if he’d thought it out or if Mycroft had, but now their legs are touching and the walls are starting to sparkle gold.

“Please, make yourself at home,” he drawls, rolling onto his back as the back of the sofa flattens out, cushions joining together to form pristine white sheets, pillows popping into existence by their heads.

Greg watches Mycroft turn to pin him to the newly-turned bed, a much too self-satisfied smirk on his face as his hands drift along Greg’s t-shirt, watching the cloth disintegrate under his touch. “Don’t mind if I do.”

He reaches up to pull Mycroft’s head down, bringing him in for a messy kiss as he runs his own hands down Mycroft’s back, slicing through the clothes as smoothly as a knife through butter. The jacket, soon joined by waistcoat and shirt, falls off in pieces, letting him slip his hands along the warm skin of Mycroft’s back.

Mycroft lets out a breathy laugh when they separate. “Hasty now, are we?” he teases, even as he starts working on Greg’s jeans, patches of denim disappearing underneath his piercing blue eyes.

Greg drags him down to kiss him again, wrapping his legs around Mycroft’s waist and enjoying the feel of pressed pants melting away to bare skin. He pulls away from the kiss for a second, shifting to brush light kisses along Mycroft’s jaw, sucking down on his throat. “Always,” he whispers.

Mycroft gives him a soft smile, pulling him back up for another kiss, tongue pushing against the seam of his lips. Hands are at his fly until suddenly they’re on his dick and all Greg feels is glittering gold arousal bursting through his veins—

\-- 

When he wakes up, Greg finds himself on a sofa—a real sofa this time—head pounding, body curled against a still-sleeping Mycroft. There’s a cup of tea in front of him, as well as a disaster zone’s worth of clutter that makes his head ache just a bit more. He longs to reach out for the tea, but one arm’s stuck underneath him and Mycroft has the other pinned down.

“Sorry about the mess,” says a voice from above him. A few steps, and John walks into view, a small smile on his face. “Sherlock threw a fit when we came back.”

“Thanks for not kicking us out,” replies Greg. He eyes the tea sadly—not sure if he craves the bitterness on his tongue or the normalcy it represents.

Probably the taste, to be honest, he has an appalling weakness for a good cuppa.

“You weren’t doing anything scandalous when we found you, if that’s what you mean. Just lying on the ground together. I got him to help me move you two to the sofa.” John shrugs, placing his own mug of tea next to the one on the table. “He does think you two are conspiring against him now, though.”

Mycroft takes this time to wake up, sleepily nuzzling against Greg’s neck. “My brother has always had a flair for the dramatic.”

His arm shifts, and Greg takes that opportunity to sneak his own arm out and snatch the cup of tea in one quick motion. The satisfaction he feels when he brings it up to his mouth triumphs over the amusement he can sense radiating from Mycroft.

Mycroft makes a quick grab at his tea, snagging the handle and slipping it away from Greg before he can take a sip. He frowns, watching Mycroft hum into _his_ cup of tea, smirking smugly at him, and mutters, “You better not spill any on me.”

“Of course not.” Mycroft nudges at him to sit up, wrapping one arm securely around his waist.

John looks away from them for a second, almost mumbling to the ground, “I hate to ask so soon, but I’m going to guess you haven’t had the bond checked out, and if you’d like, I’m qualified—“

“No, we have not,” interrupts Mycroft smoothly. “And yes, please do.”

John looks at Greg for confirmation, and he just shrugs. It can’t hurt, and at least John knows to be discreet.

John carefully arranges his fingers on their faces, expertly bridging them together and bringing them just closely enough to examine the outside of the bond without opening the link to a full-on meld, gently poking around their minds. While he’s obviously trying to be as delicate as possible, the throbbing mess of his and Mycroft’s link is gnawing at any feeling that comes into contact, scratching bright marks against his mind, and he winces as John tentatively explores.

“You said you only met once?” asks John, a bewildered look on his face.

“Yeah,” says Greg. “Something wrong?”

John fully withdraws from their minds and eyes them with apprehension. “This isn’t—it looks like you’ve been bonded for years. It seems, uh.” He shrugs. “Permanent.”

Mycroft raises an eyebrow while Greg gapes. “ _Excuse me_?”

John holds up his hands. “I’m just telling you what I see.”

“I was with my wife for five years and we could barely get the marriage bond to hook, and you’re telling me I’m permanently bonded to a man I’ve met once?”

“You’re extremely compatible?” offers John.  He sighs. “Spontaneous bonds like yours are so rare there’s very little literature on them. I can’t tell you how it happened, but—it’s here to stay, like it or not.”

Mycroft stands abruptly. “Excuse me,” he says, calm and artfully placid even when Greg can feel his anxiety and fear. He’s out the door before Greg can say a word and John shakes his head.

“I know it’s a lot to process,” he says. “But sleep on it and we’ll see if there’s something we can do tomorrow.”

\--

With John’s okay about his working the next day, Greg heads home.

His bonds with his siblings and parents itched and made themselves known, but they faded with distance and never really bothered him with their pressure. Sherlock’s bond varied, a spontaneous flitty thing that came and went, pressing and disappearing as it saw fit. John’s is a solid anchor, never pressing too intently, remaining a constant comfort as a counterweight to Sherlock.

His bond to Mycroft is a possessive, cumbersome thing, trying to stretch into as much space as possible and continually reminding him of its existence by incessantly pounding its presence into his mind.

To his eternal relief, the bond’s connection dampens as he gets farther away until it’s a dull throb at the back of his head when he finally reaches his flat. It’s still irritatingly hard to ignore, but it’s nothing compared to the overload of emotions he had felt during their meld.

He almost feels normal, puttering around his flat and fixing up some vegetables to stir-fry.

\--

His first step into the Yard corrects him on that incredibly stupid idea. His arrival seems to set off some internal alarm and everyone stares at him like he has a giant halo over his head. Gregson actually swipes at the air around him, asking, “How in the hell are you _glowing_ like that?”

Well, at least Greg knows his feelings are hardly accurate assessments of his appearance and something is very obviously different.

Sally sneaks looks at him throughout the day, not even complaining when he calls Sherlock to a scene. She’s too busy trying not to laugh at Greg to run over and antagonise the consulting detective. This, while not a wonderful compromise, means he doesn’t need to break up their bickering, which is almost worth all the irritation this bond’s caused.

“Interesting weekend?” She asks with a cheeky smile, like they aren’t at a crime scene and a person isn’t lying dead only twenty feet away.

“I believed you had witnesses to question, _Sergeant_?” he replies, trying to instill his words with the most commanding tone he has.

She just looks amused. “Of course, _sir_.” She flashes him one last grin and a jaunty salute before she walks off toward the grieving boyfriend, calling over her shoulder, “I expect to be invited to the ceremony.”

A few constables on his team turn to give him an interested look, but Greg just sighs and turns around to walk to his car. He pertinently ignores the tentative touches from the minds around him and resigns himself to throwing his shields up to max to try and stave off some of the curiosity.

\-- 

It takes three hours after Mycroft wakes up from his alcohol-induced slumber when he realises, with a slight degree of consternation, that he isn’t all that bothered by the idea of being bonded to Gregory Lestrade.

He’s spent the majority of an hour looking up the Detective Inspector’s life history, searching for the elusive _something_ his mind must have found so interesting about Greg to have so instantly opened up to bond with him.

And, to his horror, Greg is _fascinating_.

He’s not brilliant like Mycroft or Sherlock, but he holds the qualities of something much more incredibly stable.

The papers recite facts, uninteresting tidbits of information that reveal things of little importance. Mycroft’s an expert at reading between the lines, however, and where the words say _middle child of three,_ he reads _loved, but not pampered_ ; _wanted, but not adored_. He can see the loyalty; to his parents, his family, his friends, the crown; his stubborn streak, doggedly following leads wherever they led, his unending patience dealing with restless suspects and Sherlock—and Mycroft very nearly drowns in the details.

Gregory Lestrade is not a great man, but Mycroft has never seen a better one.

\--

Greg’s phone vibrates the second it hits five.

**221b.  
SH**

There’s an insistent knock from Sherlock’s door in his mind, followed by some tugging and pulling at the knob. Greg’s never been more thankful that picklocking a mental door is impossible.

**221b. Now.  
SH**

There’s another round of knocking at the door, and he finally wrenches it open.

 _What,_ he thinks loudly, _do you want?_

 _Come_ , demands Sherlock’s impatient voice. The connection shuts off.

He’s tempted to ignore the call—to go home to his flat, order take-out, and watch crap telly all evening—but he knows Sherlock would probably throw a fit and ignore him for weeks if he did, no matter how interesting and odd the cases Greg offered. So he finds himself at Baker Street twenty minutes later, significantly more irritated when John answers the door and apologetically tells him that, no, sorry, Sherlock’s not home.

He sighs. “Do you mind if I wait inside, then?” he asks, “He’ll probably keep bugging me if I leave.”

“Yeah, sure, we’ve all been mercy to his whims at some point in time.” John lets him in, leading him up the stairs, “I’ve got tea if you want some.”

Greg’s halfway through the doorway when he senses another mind in the room and he spends the next half-second mouthing, “Bloo—“ when someone catches his hands and something cold and metal clicks together around his forehead. “—dy hell,” he finishes, turning to John and giving him his best look of utter betrayal before he faints.

Things are cold and dark in his dream, like he’s stuck in a dark room without a light switch. He can’t move—arms and legs are frozen—and trying to reach out with his mind results in stabbing pain down his spine.

He can feel a dull sense of panic build in the back of his mind, barely apparent from behind the wall separating him from his bonds.

Why can’t he move? Why can’t he _feel_?

His breathing quickens, heart thumping like he’s running a marathon.

Why can’t he _breathe—_

“Greg,” says a voice, and he dimly feels a hand on his forehead, realises his arms and legs aren’t actually trapped, but something’s still _off_ —

“Greg,” it repeats, more insistent this time, and he opens his eyes cautiously. John looks anxiously back, though his face brightens a few seconds after. There’s a thump somewhere in the background, and an ache suddenly blooms in his head as he winces, eyes closing again.

“You _said_ it wouldn’t have any adverse effects, Sherlock,” John says crossly. “I count this as quite adverse.”

“There was no other way to ensure your assistance.” Sherlock sounds petulant, sulking like a scolded teenager. There’s a moment of hesitation before he finally admits, “I may have underestimated the shock factor.”

“ _Really_ ,” says John flatly, and Greg would laugh if he had the strength. He can barely lift his arms as it is.

There’re suddenly footsteps, heavy and hurrying up the stairs, and then an abrupt stop, followed by heated knocking at the door.

And Sherlock, with his usual sardonic flair: “Twelve minutes, Mycroft. Take a biscuit break, did you?”

“ _What did you do to him_.” And there’s Mycroft, cutting to the point in sharp, jagged fury—and how strange, it’s the first time since the bonding that Greg can’t feel his presence.

“To who?”

“Don’t play _coy_ , brother. It never did suit you.”

“A bit involved, aren’t you, Mycroft? What happened to your life philosophy?” There’s a derisive snort. “Caring is not an advantage, was it?”

“ _Where is he?”_

“I hate to interrupt your little slapfight,” interjects John, voice deathly calm. “But Sherlock, where did you get this blocker?”

There’s a pause in the bickering. “The Yard storeroom, why?” Sherlock actually sounds slightly concerned at John’s tone of voice.

“Because this model was _banned_ a decade ago.” And isn’t that a wonderful piece of information to learn while _wearing_ said banned blocker. He feels John poke at the metal band, fingers deftly searching for the release latch. “They cause irreparable damage to the bond circuits if left on for too long.”

Just the words Greg wants to hear.

He knows the exact moment John deactivates the blocker, because that’s also the same moment he blacks out for the second time.

Consciousness comes slowly, a drip-drop of sensations as his mind slowly uncurls and reaches out. There’s a sort of dull ache, not as sharp or pronounced a pain as right after waking up with the blocker, which Greg is dearly thankful for.

He feels Mycroft’s presence immediately, a solid silver-blue block that nearly overwhelms him until he grounds himself again, mind pressing away to find John’s orange and Sherlock’s metallic green.

“—simply an experiment,” complains Sherlock, “A solution to your apparently permanent predicament.”

“You assaulted a police officer and forced a neural dampener of questionable legality onto him,” says Mycroft, vicious calm emanating from him in waves of murky yellow.

“How was I to know the Yard still kept obsolete technology on hand?” retorts Sherlock. “When not activated, the only difference between this model and the one presently used is one digit printed on the inside band. I’m terribly sorry for trusting the police for once. I’ll ensure I never make that same mistake again.”

There’s a sigh. “That’s not the problem, Sherlock,” says John tiredly. ”We should have never planned to pop it on Greg without permission in the first place. It wasn’t our decision to make.”

“To save two completely incompatible men the agony of being forced to deal with each other for an extended period of time? I’d say my experiment was a favor to the both of you.”

Greg takes this time to blink his eyes open, finding himself looking up at Mycroft’s chin, with his own head resting against Mycroft’s legs while the other man absently pets at his hair. Greg would almost find it sweet if they’d met more than three times before. As it is, it’s a somewhat strange but acceptable reaction to someone who’d just had all connection cut off to his bondmate.

“We don’t know that quite yet,” he says, voice a bit hoarse from disuse. “He seems more bearable than you, anyway.”

“For _now_ ,” mutters Sherlock, but John shushes him, walking over to Greg to help him sit up on the couch.

Mycroft simply looks down at him with concern, moving his hand from Greg’s hair to his shoulder before finally resting it on the back of his hand. “You’re fine,” he says. It’s not a question, because Greg can already feel Mycroft tentatively reaching out to touch at the surface thoughts physical contact opened.

“Yeah,” replies Greg, smiling weakly. “Could be better, though.”

John brings a hand up to his forehead, looking to him for permission and Greg nods. The meld is shallow, just deep enough for John to poke around before he’s out.

“No damage,” he says in relief. “Everything seems to be working fine.”

“And the bond?” demands Sherlock.

John throws his flatmate a withering glance, but holds out his other hand to Mycroft. Mycroft eyes it warily for all of two seconds before sighing and nodding, and then Greg’s back in the meld, looking down at their bond with a sense of disconnected unease.

“It’s—settled,” says John with surprise. “It’s hard to tell by eye, but it seems, well, smaller.”

Greg and Mycroft share a look, because, nope, he can still feel Mycroft’s emotions and surface thoughts like a drumbeat across his mind. He gently pulls his hand away, and it’s still the same, though the surface thoughts have disappeared. The ache’s still there, though, like a recently cauterised wound.

Sherlock looks triumphant, head up in his usual mix of arrogance and condescension. He doesn’t say, “I told you so” in so many words, but only because he doesn’t need to. The smugness wafting off from him does that for him already.

Mycroft simply feels relieved and fondly exasperated, forever amused by his younger brother’s antics, while Greg—he’s simply not in the mood for Sherlock.

They’re eventually shooed out of the flat, John sending them off with a thousand apologies for Sherlock and a promise from them to visit the surgery in a week to check on the bond’s progress.

Which leaves them on the pavement outside 221b, with Greg nervously scuffing his shoe against the concrete and Mycroft looking at the empty space just right of Greg’s ear.

“We should discuss this,” Greg says finally, not so much breaking the awkward silence as smashing through it with a sledgehammer.

“Yes. We should.” Mycroft looks slightly miserable, but he nods. “But perhaps somewhere more private would be appropriate.” A black car slides to a stop next to them.

Greg blinks while Mycroft opens the back door, waving a hand. “After you.”

\--

The Stranger’s Room at the Diogenes Club is one of Mycroft’s favorite places to hold discreet conversations. Boasting a well-trained staff equipped with tact and the best of Mycroft’s whisky collection, it seemed to be the perfect location considering the purpose of the meeting: destroying the only stable, non-familial bond Mycroft would ever have.

Reaching for a glass, he can already taste smooth single-malt Scotch on his tongue—

“Bit early for that, don’t you think?” asks Greg wryly.

Mycroft frowns. “Yes, well.” He retracts his hand and shrugs. “I thought it suited the mood, but if you prefer something weaker, perhaps tea—”

“Tea would be lovely, thanks.”

“Of course.” He smiles tightly, picking up his phone while mentally berating himself for not reading that off Greg in the first place. Sherlock was right about one thing at least—he’s definitely out of practice. “Any preference?”

Greg blinks. “Er. Anything’s fine.”

 _Pot of jasmine tea_ , texts Mycroft.

He can hear Greg stand and pace, and Mycroft takes the chance to check on updates from Anthea. Suddenly, the footsteps stop, and he dimly hears, “Look, I know our bonding was abrupt, and we didn’t exactly have a choice about it—”

 _And paracetamol,_ he adds, before finally looking up.

“—but if you’re even the slightest more socially acclimated than Sherlock, I’m sure we can work something out.” Greg drops to his seat, hand raising to scratch at the back of his neck, and Mycroft can feel the slight pinpricks of tension and worry bear down. “I mean, something decided we were compatible enough for life, right?”

He opens his mouth, readying himself for the disappointment and disgust that would inevitably follow his negative reply, and finds himself saying, “Okay.”

Wait. No, that’s not what he means to say—but his heart seems to have finally decided to rebel, because he can’t seem to force himself to say the words to stop this first opportunity of happiness he’s had in ages, to strip the small, hopeful smile from Greg’s face.

“It’ll be a trial period,” Mycroft dimly hears, busy as he is cursing his feelings into nonexistence and failing. “To see if we can live without trying to murder each other.”

Mycroft smiles faintly, hoping that his trepidation doesn’t show as Greg beams at him. He has no illusions that this will end in a flaming ball of destruction, but it takes more cruelty and cynicism than he owns to crush the hope building deep in his chest.

**Author's Note:**

> Let me list what ideas I've stolen:
> 
> Inception; mind fortresses.  
> Star Trek; Vulcan mind meld and bonding lines.  
> Emotional coloring is inspired by every ST bonding fic ever. My id is responsible for everything else.


End file.
